Moments
by Thorn Wild
Summary: He's in her power, and he knows it. She could do anything she wants to him, and he would let her. A collection of short stories and drabbles exploring missing moments between and in the relationship of Spike and Buffy. Rated for language and adult content.
1. Fleeing Sunnyhell

_**Author's Note:**_

_I hardly ever write het. Aside from the obvious, generally heteronormative pairings in fandom bore me. They're too obvious to be interesting, and too sweet to ever be truly passionate, and none of them ever just get down to it and shag already. There's this song and dance, these silly courting rituals, and everything's so perfect and rosy and lovy-dovy that it's really enough to make you sick. Any conflict comes from silly misunderstandings and miscommunications, and it's all so boring and annoying and sad._

_I also never write canonical pairings, for much the same reason, and also because all the stories worth telling have already been told._

_So far, there is only one exception, and that exception is Buffy and Spike. The way they fight, the angry sex, the self-loathing, the passion… The gut-wrenching honesty about how hard it is. The way he gets so sad and pathetic that you don't know whether you feel sorry for him or wish someone would just stake him already, and the way you want to shout at her and tell her to get over herself and just love him, damnit, look at how hard he works for it! And of course it's not really that simple, and even though she does love him in the end, there are no happy endings for the two of them. It's fast, and it's brutal, and it's hard, and it's sexy._

_Of course, their story is too complete to have much room for fanfic. They fight, and they hate each other, and he loves her and she confides in him, but she never trusts him, and they shag, and they break it off, and, oh, that painful, painful scene in the bathroom that's so raw and horrible and amazingly acted out that it breaks your heart completely. He runs away, he comes back, he's damaged and crazy and unable to cope, and though she doesn't trust him one bit, she helps him, she fixes him, and he fixes her, until they trust each other completely, and love each other far more deeply than the physical, sexual relationship they had ever could have allowed. In many ways, I think Buffy loves Spike in a much deeper and more intimate manner than she ever loved Angel – even if her love for the latter was wilder and more passionate and untamed – and Spike knows her far better than her first love ever could._

_It's a story that breaks my heart over and over again. It makes me ache for them, cry for them, and love them both madly and unconditionally._

_And although their story is complete, there are holes. Most from his point of view, but some from hers. Moments that we never see. Incomplete scenes, bits where we can imagine more taking place, unsaid, between the lines. And their thoughts! There are so many thoughts they never express, so much feeling. And that's where I started writing._

* * *

_I was going to revise this one a little bit more, but then the word count in my word processor told me it was exactly 666 words long, and I couldn't resist. Set directly after season 2. A__fter helping Buffy to defeat Angelus, _Spike is fleeing Sunnydale with Dru, who already knows that she's lost him. Contains Spike/Drusilla.

* * *

FLEEING SUNNYHELL

Drusilla stirs next to him and opens her eyes slowly. He glances sideways at her with blue eyes and smiles.

'Welcome back, my sweet,' he says.

She blinks a few times and rubs her eyes, before turning them on him, pursing her lips disapprovingly.

'What have you done, my Spike?' she asks, her tone of voice a little harder than usual.

'What I had to,' Spike replies simply, keeping his eyes on the road through the slit in the black paint covering the wind screen. 'I happen to like this world, duck, and I'd a million times rather spend a few more years in it with you than an eternity in hell with Angelus.' He spits the name, as though it were a curse word.

'Our Angelus is gone,' Drusilla moans. 'Swallowed up and vanished.'

'So, the Slayer lives, then. Good for her,' Spike mutters. 'I might yet get to kill her one day.'

Drusilla sits up properly, brushing her dark hair out of her face.

'You've spoiled everything!' she whines. 'Nothing will ever be the same…'

'You're damn right it won't!' Spike growls. 'I won't ever have to live in his shadow again. Angelus always took everything I wanted, everything that was mine! And with Darla gone, there was nothing to dissuade him from taking you from me, too. I couldn't let that happen. You belong with me, Dru! You know that!'

She gives no reply to that. Instead she turns her eyes away, staring down at her hands. Spike wonders what she sees there.

After a few moments, she speaks again. 'Why did it have to be her?'

Spike heaves an exasperated sigh and runs a hand through his hair. The bleached locks are coming loose from their gel. 'Because there was no one else strong enough to take on Angelus!' he states, his voice perhaps a little louder than necessary. 'I did this for you, petal, can't you see that? For us! Now, we're free!'

'You'll never be free,' Drusilla counters, silently, still not looking at him. 'She's infected you. You're hers now, sweet William…'

'Oh, for fuck's sake!' Spike roars, turning to her. 'Will you shut up about the soddin' Slayer, you stupid cow?'

Drusilla turns her wide, grey eyes to him and whimpers, shrinking back in her seat, and he immediately melts.

'Oh, I'm sorry, kitten!' He pulls the car over to the side of the road, before putting his arms around her, holding her close. 'I didn't mean to shout at you, I just… Let's just forget about this, all right? Let's just… we're running away now, right? Away from Sunnyhell and the Slayer and all that. It'll just be you and me again. You know I love you, my dark princess… You're all I'll ever want…'

Her arms circle his neck and she hugs him back and nods into his shoulder.

Then he kisses her, putting all his frustration and anger and joy and love into it, leaving her breathless, if she had breath. He pushes her back into the seat, reaching up inside her skirts with his left hand, smiling when she moans.

And yet, at the back of his mind, there's a nagging little voice saying, _Maybe she's right? Maybe you _do_ belong to the Slayer now?_ And unbidden images seem to burst into his mind, of the Slayer, Buffy Summers – her steely, piercing green gaze, her jaw set in concentration as she resumes her fighting stance, her slim, lithe form as she fights with fluid dexterity and acute precision. She is a killing machine the likes of which he has yet to encounter. Killing her would be his greatest challenge yet, but making her his… Now, that would be a battle for the ages.

He shakes the idea from his mind. One day, he will return to Sunnydale and finish what he started; slaying the Slayer and drinking deep from her life's blood will be a genuine pleasure. For now, there are other tasks at hand.


	2. Neck

_**Author's Note: **Thanks so much to everyone who's reviewed and decided to follow this little ficlet collection! You're awesome! I was meaning to do these chronologically, but these things don't always work out the way you plan... Quick drabble, set in season 4, during the episode Something Blue._

* * *

NECK

'Oh, look at my poor neck! All bare and tender and exposed… All that blood just pumping away…'

Spike shudders where he sits chained to the bathtub. He can smell her, smell her blood pumping through her veins, he can see it, throbbing and alive, and he would like nothing better than to bite down and drink deep.

'Giles, make her stop!' he calls to the Watcher, who has just left the room muttering to himself, but there's no reply.

Buffy smirks at him.

'You're sadistic, you know that, Slayer?' Spike grumbles. 'I mean it, you could give me a run for _my_ money.' He pauses, giving it some thought. 'In fact, you could give Dru a run for _her_ bloody money, and she's insane!'

'Aww, poor Spikey!' Buffy says with a mock pout. She leans in closer. 'You know, there are lots of ways you could make this easier, like for instance _telling me what you know!_'

If he could move just an inch closer to her now, he could bite her. If it weren't for his little problem, that is. Her neck looks so delectable, so tasty, and also, he admits to himself, so bloody hot. He looks away, shutting his eyes momentarily to prevent himself from putting on his game face. He has a very distinct feeling that if he even tries, he'll be dust before long. At the moment, though, he's not entirely certain that he cares.

He takes a deep breath. 'Please,' he tries, 'May I have some blood?'

She leans in just a little more and whispers, 'No.'

It only takes a second. If he tries to bite her, it'll hurt him a lot more than it'll have time to hurt her, he knows that… But he doesn't have to bite.

She's close enough. Before she has the opportunity to react, he lunges, attaching his lips to her neck, just below the ear. A minute nibble, a little lick…

Buffy yelps and stands up, her hand flying to her neck. It comes away wet with saliva, but no blood. 'What the hell?'

Spike leans back in the tub and smirks up at her. She blinks at him, a slow blush creeping up her face. Most likely it's due to anger, but Spike finds himself wondering if it couldn't also have something to do with the feel of his lips on her skin.

'What the actual fuck was that, Spike?' she demands. He shrugs, himself not entirely certain. He did it on pure impulse. It was worth it, though, for the look on her face, and he suppresses a smirk.

She looks away in disgust, shaking her head. 'God, you really must be desperate…'

'And whose bloody fault is that?' says Spike, calmly. 'Just let me have my sodding blood, love, and stop being such a bitch.'

She makes an exasperated noise, but then she picks up the mug of pig's blood and takes a seat on the edge of the tub once more.


	3. Guilty Feelings

_**Author's Note: **Set shortly after 'Something Blue'. Thoughtful Buffy is thoughtful._

* * *

GUILTY FEELINGS

Buffy's in her dorm room, lying fully clothed on her bed. Willow's at the library, studying. She's been doing that a lot for the past couple of days, presumably still feeling guilty about the whole will be done spell thing. Buffy doesn't think she's avoiding her, exactly… More like giving her some space. And she feels okay with that.

She's been spending as much time as she can with Riley recently, trying to get to know him better, trying to figure him out. He's nice. Sweet, even. Perhaps a little too sweet, at times… It's not that she doesn't like him. She really, really does. He's a good person, and he's gorgeous, and he's really into her. But the whole thing makes her feel sort of uneasy. She's used to it hurting more.

There's something else, as well. Every time she's near him, every time she thinks about what a relationship with him might be like, her mind slips back to those few hours when she thought she loved Spike.

No, not thought… Did. She _did_ love Spike. The thought of it disgusts her now, but she clearly remembers feeling it. Remembers wanting to be with him forever. Remembers wanting _him_.

If she's honest with herself, she supposes that he _is_ attractive enough, in an undead sort of way… But still, he's _Spike_. He's an evil, blood-sucking thing. He doesn't have a soul, like Angel. He doesn't feel love or remorse, and if it weren't for his current inability to hurt anyone anymore, she would have staked him by now. She isn't quite sure why she hasn't, since it's obvious that he doesn't really know anything about these commando boys. At this point, she'd probably have better luck asking around campus than talking to William the Bloody.

She sighs, turning over on her side, and her mind drifts back to a pair of strikingly blue eyes. She loved him, passionately… Remembering all that, it's hard for her to hate him anymore. It was a spell, of course, but part of it still lingers, in the memories. Occasionally, she even imagines going over to Giles's place to interrogate the vampire, and 'accidentally' kissing him again, just to see what would happen, how it would feel. She shakes her head violently. She shouldn't even be thinking that…

She's Buffy. She's the Vampire Slayer. She _slays_ vampires, she doesn't _kiss_ them. And anyway, once again, this is _Spike_. It's _icky_.

So why can't she help but think it?


	4. The Blame Game

_**Author's Note:** Set during 'Who Are You?' Faith is in Buffy's body, but Spike doesn't know that._

* * *

THE BLAME GAME

'You know why I really hate you, Summers?'

'Cause I'm a stuck-up tight-ass with no sense of fun?'

'Well… yeah. That covers a lot of it.'

'Cause I could do anything I want, and instead I choose to pout and whine and feel the burden of Slayerness? I mean, I could be rich. I could be famous. I could have anything. Any_one_. Even you, Spike…' She puts her hands on his chest, caressing the leather of his coat, and pushes him back against a pillar. Then she leans in close, looking up into his face with those intense green eyes, her back arched at a seductive angle. 'I could ride you at a gallop until your legs buckled and your eyes rolled up,' she murmurs huskily, rolling her hips against him. 'I've got muscles you've never even _dreamed _of. I could squeeze you until you popped like warm champagne and you'd _beg_ me to hurt you just a little bit more. And you know why I don't?'

He couldn't answer, even if he currently had control of his own body. This is a side to the Slayer that he's never seen before, and it's totally baffling to him. So he remains quiet, staring down at her, willing her to either get away from him or just kiss him already.

'Because it's _wrong_!' she whispers. Then she giggles and lets go, stepping around him.

Spike turns his head and looks at her. 'I get this chip out, you and me are gonna have a confrontation!' he growls, putting as much menace into his voice as he can.

'Count on it,' she says simply and walks away.

Angry and frustrated, he pins around and throws his beer bottle in the direction of where she was standing a moment before, shattering it against the wall. Then he stalks out, coat billowing behind him. He stops in the alley outside, leaning his back against the wall, uncomfortably aware of the bulge in his trousers. It's true, he's had the occasional sexual thought about the Slayer. He's a man, and who wouldn't? But this, this is a completely different animal. Why would she tease him like this? Was she simply mocking him, or is there something else to this, something deeper? He lights a fag, puffing at it angrily. Bloody Slayer…

Everything that's gone wrong in his life is her fault. He was perfectly happy just running around in the world with Drusilla, killing people and drinking them dry, until he met her. Until he came to Sunnydale, and everything changed. Fucking Angelus and his grand doomsday plans, his power over Dru, forcing Spike to team up with the one person he wanted most of all dead, save perhaps his silly sod of a grandsire. That's why Dru left him. That's why she left him _twice_. All the Slayer's fault. If it hadn't been for her, he'd have the Gem of Amara right now. He'd be walking around in the sun, impervious to harm. And it's the Slayer's fault that those Initiative guys got hold of him too, implanted this bloody chip. Without it, he would have killed her long ago.

Only maybe he wouldn't have. Because there's something – the same something that made him join forces with her two years ago, and the same something that's kept her from staking him for this long – that holds him back. In a very strange way, he's quite enjoyed being one of the good guys, even though it's not real. He'll be damned (well, damnder than he already is, vampire and all) if he'll ever admit that to anyone, though.

There's a crashing noise from further down the alley, followed by a scream and the unmistakable sound of a vampire's growl. Spike drops the remains of his cigarette on the ground, extinguishing it with his boot. Existential crisis? Nothing a good spot of violence won't cure.


	5. Evil

_**Author's Note****:** Set directly after 'Crush'. Buffy's contemplating Spike's feelings for her, whether they're real and what they really mean._

_To all reviewers and followers, thanks so much for your continued support!_

* * *

EVIL

Buffy enters the bathroom. She's exhausted. This night has been one of the most bizarre nights of her life, which is saying something. All she wants now is a hot bath and her bed. She turns on the faucet, putting her hand under the stream of hot water to get the right temperature. A bizarre night indeed.

Spike loves her. Spike _loves _her? Spike loves _her_? _Spike_ loves her?

No matter how many times she repeats that in her head, it doesn't sound right. If it wasn't so creepy it might almost be funny. He's obviously deranged. Sick. There's something seriously wrong with a soulless vampire being in love with her.

Buffy selects a sweet scented bubble bath from the cabinet and pours it in, watching it foam. She knows it isn't real. Vampires _can't_ love!

'_Oh, we can, you know. We can love quite well.'_ Drusilla's voice echoes in her mind, and she feels slightly sick again. This whole night has been like some kind of farce. Spike, first promising to kill Dru, and then promising to sic her on Buffy unless Buffy would admit there was something between them… Which there most definitely is not!

And yet… when it really mattered, he came through. Released her and helped her fight off Drusilla. She feels like that should make a difference, at the same time as it really shouldn't. He doesn't get credit for not letting his ex murder her.

The tub is almost full now, so she takes off her bathrobe and slippers and lies down for a good soak. It doesn't make any sense. How did he get this… crazy about her? How does that even happen? He must know how wrong it is.

He _does_ know, she realises with a jolt. He told her as much. He knows it's wrong, he knows it doesn't make sense, and still he tries. Still he goes ahead and deludes himself that there might some day be something between them. It's either lunacy or… or it really _is_ love.

She can almost believe it. It's not a healthy sort of love. It's a sick, demented and selfish love, wrong on so many levels, and it must be painful in the extreme… But she can very nearly believe that it _is_ love, what he feels for her.

Especially when she remembers the look he gave her right before she shut the door in his face. The hurt visible there, as he realised that she'd really shut him out. After all this time, she finally did what he never thought she would and deinvited him from her house. She never thought she'd see Spike look so vulnerable, and against her better judgment, now that the rage has dissipated, she pities him. He really is broken.

But that's not her fault. And it's not her responsibility. And this has got to end _here_, before it goes any further, before it gets out of hand. She knows she did the right thing. The only thing she _could_ do. With any luck, he'll leave now and never come back.

And even now, after everything that's happened, she's not sure that's what she really wants. He's become a permanent fixture, a constant in the backdrop of Sunnydale. And even though he occasionally slips up and does something stupid, he hasn't been evil in a long time, not really, and he usually has her back when she needs him, and sometimes when she doesn't think she does. He's the strongest fighter around, and in the past few months he has used his strength almost exclusively for good. He's tried to protect Dawn, in his own misguided way, and he's helped out however he can, and even if that was all just to score points with her, it still counts for something.

But she doesn't trust him. She doesn't, and she never will. She can't. He's not human. He doesn't have a soul.

Deep down, he's evil, and that's all he'll ever be.


	6. Toys

**_Author's Note: _**_Just a wee drabble, set during 'Intervention'._

* * *

TOYS

She's writhing beneath him, quivering and whimpering. His hand is between her legs, caressing the soft wetness there. She's dripping with it. He cups one of her breasts and squeezes the nipple between forefinger and thumb, and she gasps. As she does, he pushes one finger slowly inside her. She's so tight, and the walls of her weeping cunt close further around his finger as he rubs her clit with his thumb.

She's so real. So fantastically real! Just as he imagined her to be. He pulls out his fingers and undoes his belt, pulling down his trousers, and then makes love to her again, for what must be at least the third time tonight. He kisses and nibbles at her throat and she throws her head back to give him better access.

'Oh, Spike!' she moans. 'Yes! Devour me…'

It makes him want her even more, and he picks up the pace, going faster. 'What do you say, love? Am I bad?' he whispers.

'Oh, yes! You are! You're very, very bad!'

When he comes with a groan, she pulls his face down towards her and kisses him deeply.

'Buffy, you're amazing…' he murmurs. 'I love you…'

'I love you too, Spike!'

He looks down at her, and he can feel tears in his eyes. He strokes her cheek with the back of his hand. Then he kisses her forehead.

She looks and tastes and feels so perfect, so right. He can almost believe it's really her. Almost…

But then she smiles at him, and her smile is plastic. And she says exactly the things she's supposed to say to please him, and there's something missing.

And he remembers that this beautiful creature beneath him, who looks and feels just as she should, has no soul. She's nothing but a glorified blow-up doll. And, for about a minute, it breaks his heart.

But then he gets distracted, and he gets on with it, and he thinks he's happy. If this is as close as he's going to get, he can pretend.


	7. Remembering

_**Author's Note: **Set after 'The Gift', between Season 5 and Season 6. Spike is mourning Buffy._

* * *

REMEMBERING

He sits in his crypt in the darkness. Alone, just him and his thoughts, as always. He's counting. Counting the days, and the hours, and the minutes. Counting the seconds since she's been gone. Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three-hundred-and-thirty-six hours. Twenty-thousand-one-hundred-and-sixty minutes. One-million-two-hundred-and-nine-thousand-six-hundred seconds. Six-hundred-and-one. Six-hundred-and-two. Six-hundred-and-three…

If he stops counting, he'll see her fall. When he sleeps, if he sleeps, he dreams about it. He dreams about getting there a moment sooner. He dreams that he never let the Doc reach Dawn. He dreams about catching Buffy before she falls. But when he wakes up, he remembers that he didn't. That he couldn't. That she's gone.

It hurts more than anything has ever hurt him before. An ache, deep in his gut, that won't go away. He feels nothing else. Even if he could kill, the thrill of it would be gone. He doesn't want to do anything. Doesn't want to hunt. Doesn't even want to feed. His refrigerator is full of pig's blood that's starting to go off.

Six-hundred-and-thirty. Six-hundred-and-thirty-one…

There comes a knock on his door. At first he doesn't even react. He continues to stare off into nothingness, counting the seconds. Six-hundred-and-thirty-six.

'Spike?'

He halts in his counting, blinking. No… Not her! Not that thing…

'Go away!' he calls. 'You're not her…'

Willow put the Buffybot back together as soon as she was able. If the demon population of Sunnydale knew that the Slayer was gone, that there was nothing to stop them anymore, everything would be over. So the robot patrols. Unfortunately it has a tendency to wander off to his crypt in the wee hours of the morning. He supposes it's seeking familiar ground. Willow has tried to change its programming to make it less focused on him, but it doesn't seem to have helped.

'But I've been killing vamps, and I'm all hot and bothered. It's time for you to ravage me!'

Anger flares inside him. He would gladly tear the thing's head off again if it would make it stop trying to be here. If it would stop reminding him of his sickness, his loss, his pain.

'I said, go away!' he bellows. 'You're not allowed to come here anymore, just sod off back home!' His voice cracks. The sound of her voice, her voice that isn't really hers, is too much for him to bear. The memories come streaming back, memories of Buffy, her face, her smile, her golden hair and gleaming eyes, and her lips pressed lightly against his – her forgiveness. And just for a moment, he wants to ask the robot to come in, so he can take comfort in her, because even though she's not the real Buffy she's the closest that he's ever going to get.

He bends forwards in his chair, his face in his hands, as a violent sob shakes his body. There are no more sounds from outside. Buffybot must have given up. He can taste his own salty tears on his lips. Lips… He remembers Buffy's lips.

He needs to keep counting. Where was he? Six-hundred-and-thirty-six, but it's been at least a minute since he was interrupted. Six-hundred-and-ninety? Or has he passed One-million-two-hundred-and-nine-thousand-seven-hundred already?

He shivers, which is odd for someone who has no body temperature in the first place.

Buffy, the real Buffy, only kissed him once, aside from that time when they were both out of their minds and thought they wanted to get married. Just the one time, and just a small, chaste peck on the lips. But it's enough. The memory of it is so vivid, so clear in his mind, that he can almost feel them. Her lips. Soft and warm, and forgiving.

Spike doesn't have a soul, but he knows hers. The brightest, kindest soul the world has ever seen. And he loves her soul, as much as he loves her mind and her body. Spike is evil, or he's supposed to be, but he loves her goodness. Her capacity for love and sacrifice. He just wishes she wouldn't have had to use it so effectively.

And it starts all over, the pictures in his mind, of Buffy, falling.

His cheeks are wet. He can't stop the tears from coming. He wants it to end, he wants these feelings to go away. He wants to be himself again, but he can't. He can never be himself again, because all that's inside of him now is her.

He needs to feel something other than this despair, this ache in his chest and his gut and the dark hole where his soul should be. And so he conjures up an image of her, in his head. Of Buffy, alive and smiling, walking towards him, embracing him, holding him close, filling his cold, dead flesh with warmth. He unzips his jeans. Holds himself. Holds that image in his mind, working for his release, to make him feel something else, something real. Something that isn't death and grief and pain. Something. Anything. If only for a moment.

When he is spent, he closes his eyes, and begins to count again.

One… Two… Three…


	8. Love

_**Author's Note: **Set immediately after the end of Tabula Rasa. Spike is horny and frustrated and ponders on what will happen next, and what love, his love for the Slayer, means. Thanks a bunch to all reviewers and followers, you guys are epically awesome! If you're looking for another fix of Spuffy in between these little bits, I've got a work in progress called 'Buffy: Interrupted', an AU that spins off of 'Normal Again'. I also just have to recommend 'I made a promise to a lady', by Graq the Wild Child 2 because, damn, best I've read so far in every possible way!_

* * *

LOVE

It's the second time they've kissed, properly kissed, of their own free will. He can still feel her lips on his, if he shuts his eyes, and her scent lingers in his nostrils, her taste on his tongue. A taste and a scent which are innately _Buffy_ in nature. Not just Slayer – though the scent of her slayer blood always shines through, intoxicating him, always making him just a little bit hard with its promise even before he knew he felt anything for her – but Buffy Summers. The scent comes off her hair, it's released through her sweat, and that taste, in her saliva, her pores, hot and sweet and full of promise and life. So much life. He wants to know how that taste translates elsewhere. He perceived the scent of her arousal, when he kissed her, when she let herself become soft and pliant and let his tongue inside her mouth, let him kiss the pain away, and he knows she was sopping wet for him.

Then she went away, left him there, left him with her taste and her scent surrounding him, making him so hard he didn't know what to do with himself.

He's still in that state now, pacing his crypt, unable or unwilling to do something about it. His hand simply won't do when all he wants is her. Fuck knows he's spilled enough of his seed over her in the past, taken comfort in his own fist, laid back and closed his eyes and _dreamt_ of her, but the closer he comes to the real thing, the less any substitute will do.

He knew that already, from the moment her lips touched his, chastely and gently, when he laid bruised and broken right here, in his crypt. That was when he realised the Buffy-bot would never do again, that even if he could get it back he didn't want it anymore. He just wanted her. He doesn't count that kiss, though, just as he doesn't count the numerous snogs he enjoyed with her when they were under Willow's spell two years ago. The former was without passion, and the latter were without free will. But now…

He knows, rationally, that she doesn't love him. That these kisses, these two instances – somehow both taking place at or near the Bronze, the place where he first laid eyes on her such a long time ago, though it feels like only yesterday – were caused by her grief, her pain, her apathy, her willingness to feel _something_, _anything_, even with him. He knows that she comes to him because she wants the darkness, the safety of his solitude and silence. Because she wants to escape from her friends' looks of pity, even more so now that they all know where she's been, what she's sacrificed, what they took from her.

He knows all this, and though it should tear him apart, somehow he doesn't care. If he can have her, any part of her, he can ignore the rest. At least that's what he tells himself.

But he wants more. If he cannot have her heart, at least he wants her body. He wants her touch, her lips… And he wants her cunt. He wants to feel her wetness beneath his fingers, he wants to taste her, he wants to fuck her. Hard and brutal, or soft and gentle, he doesn't care. He'll do it any way she wants as long as he can have _her_.

Sitting down in his chair, he wonders idly what little kinks she has. What does the Slayer like best? What does she look for in a man, in the purely physical sense? Does she like it rough? Will she want him to hurt her? Can he, chip and all, if she asks him to? Or is she as sweet and innocent as she looks, vanilla desires wrapped up in sugar and spice and all things nice? Somehow he doubts it. Judging by her demanding mouth and her taste in men, it seems unlikely that she wants no more than sweet and gentle love-making. There must be some reason why Captain Cardboard couldn't do it for her, as tall and muscled as athletic as he no doubt was.

Surely he equated romance with soppy glances, handholding and sweet nothings, featherlight touches and vapid words. But Spike knows that true romance is passionate, painful and sweet, dark, full of lust and desire. It's about wanting someone so badly, loving them so deeply, that you can barely control yourself in their presence. True love – real, deep love – burns you from the inside, drains you and fills you up again, consumes you, eats you whole and spits you back out. That is what love _is_.

But what it _means_? Undying devotion. Heartfelt, honest, raw, whispered, roaring affection. Confessions, caresses, an uncontained cornucopia of clear-cut candour. Sincerity. Sensibility. Submission.

So, he'll play the Big Bad. He'll drag her into the darkness with him, make her admit that she wants him, make her his. But once she is, all that matters will be her. He'll give her the lead and let her tug him along by his fucking heartstrings until it kills him. Because that… That is what love _does_.


	9. To Pieces

_**Author's Note:** __Here's a rather long one. Set between 'Smashed' and 'Wrecked'. First time I watched the end of Smashed, I couldn't stop laughing. I mean, they shagged a house down. I wasn't sure if it was brilliant or ridiculous, or perhaps a bit of both. In Wrecked, they both wake up naked, so what happened in between?_

_Rated for sexual content and language._

* * *

TO PIECES

He's gazing up at her with his blue eyes. He has his arms around her waist, his cool hands moving over her form, feeling her. His lips are parted, his tongue snaking out to wet his lips every so often, and his brow is glistening with sweat. They are both fully clothed, except for the place where they're joined together, where she can feel him, moving within her.

The look on his face is multi-faceted. Beneath the lust and the rage and the sheer smugness at finally having her exactly where he wants her, lies a softer expression. His eyes are filled with adoration. Some part of her finds this deeply unsettling, and she looks away.

He grips her hips tightly with his hands, and she gasps as he picks up speed and intensity, pistoning into her. She leans on his chest to keep herself upright, not sure what to do with herself, not sure what her eyes should be telling him, how her body should be responding. She's quivering, inside and out. She had no idea how much she wanted this – had no idea until he was inside her of how much she needed _him_. She's so close now, so close to her release, and she digs her fingers into his shirt, crying out as this feeling of bliss fills her to the brim.

It's obvious that he's been holding back, waiting for this moment, because now he pulls her close, and rolls them over, placing her under him, her back to the cold concrete floor, and as she comes he locks his lips to hers, groaning into her mouth as with one, two, three thrusts he comes as well.

She stares up at him, wide-eyed, trying to comprehend what just happened, what she just did. He's smiling. He's still inside her. She can feel him twitch there, and she suddenly feels a little bit sick. Scrabbling around her with her right hand she finds a wood splinter. She pushes the tip of it against his chest, and he looks down at it, his smile dissipating.

'Huh,' he says. 'Not quite what I had in mind, love… Unless this is some sort of kink?' He looks into her eyes again, one eyebrow raised.

'Get off!' she growls through gritted teeth.

He pulls out of her, sits up on his haunches, and looks at her, head cocked to one side.

'More fighting, then?' he says. 'Fine by me. Have at it.'

She sits up slightly. Her breath is still coming in ragged pulls, and her heart is pounding in her chest. 'What… what was…?'

'It's called shagging, Buffy,' he tells her, patiently, tucking himself away inside his denims. 'People do it sometimes, it's a lot of fun.'

She furrows her brow and clenches her jaw, and then she lunges at him with the stake.

'Oi, none of that!' Spike grabs hold of the wrist holding the stake, twisting slightly. She gasps with pain and drops the stake. 'Now, what would you go and do that for? It's not on, love.'

Holding both her wrists in one hand, he lifts the other to her face, gently caressing her temple with his finger tips. She glares at him defiantly.

'Let me go,' she utters hoarsely.

'Not bloody likely,' he replies. 'Not done with you yet, darling.' His hand slithers up her skirt. When he touches her, she can't help but close her eyes, and she releases a small whimper.

'Oh, Buffy,' he whispers. 'There are so many more things I can do to you… If you let me.' He pulls his hand back, and releases her wrists from his grip.

Her eyes fly open and she stares at him in surprise. This is unexpected. She could get up and walk out right now, go home… But something holds her back, something is making her stay and she doesn't move a muscle, waiting for him to say or do something. His eyes have that soft look now, the look that says 'I love you', and even though she doesn't love him, even though she can't… She's drawn to him. Drawn to his blue eyes, his face, the cheekbones that could cut glass, the curve of his brow, his lips…

She springs into action, pushing him to the floor and straddling him once more. Then she kisses him, deeply and thoroughly. She nibbles at his lower lip, licks his neck and his earlobe.

'Buffy…' he groans. 'You… Your clothes… You're wearing too many clothes…'

Once again, he reverses their positions in one fluid movement, and begins to undress her. His hands wander across her skin, caressing and squeezing and tickling, exposing her to the chill of the air as he goes, and she shivers. Soon, he's removed her top and revealed her breasts. A shudder goes through her body as he leans down to lick one of her nipples. His mouth is cool, and her nipple immediately stands on attention at the touch.

He's fumbling with her skirt now. He begins to kiss and lick a trail down her stomach. She whimpers and arches her back, lifting her arse off the floor a bit. He removes the skirt, and her by now very wet panties. Then he looks up at her face, his gaze steady.

'You're magnificent,' he whispers. 'I need to taste you!'

And before she can say anything, or even react to his choice of words, he's positioned himself between her legs, holding onto her thighs, and now his tongue is doing things to her she never even thought possible. Not that she's never been on the receiving end of oral sex, but the vampire's cold tongue stimulates her in ways she could hardly imagine before, and now his fingers are working expertly inside her as well, and her entire body quivers, and she cries out. Both her hands are in his hair, pulling at his platinum curls, and she's pleading with him.

'Oh, God… Please! I can't… It's too much, I can't… _Fuck_, how are you _doing_ that? I… Oh…' Her words crumble into complete nonsense and she comes, repeatedly, her entire body shuddering violently.

He pulls her close, into his lap, facing him, and cradles her naked body in his arms, burying his nose in her hair and breathing deep. 'You taste like blood and life and heat, Buffy. And your scent… It's intoxicating… Oh, Slayer… You see? This is where you belong… This is who you are, pet.' He kisses her, and through the fabric of his jeans she can feel that he's getting hard again, and although she's exhausted and sore, she wants more. Needs it. Needs him.

She begins to undress him, slowly. She keeps her eyes fixed to his. His chest is heaving beneath her hands, as though he really needs that air, but she knows he doesn't. Her hands are trembling to begin with. She tells herself it's due to exhaustion, because she's overwhelmed, but she feels an excited flutter in her gut at the idea of seeing his body. Removing his shirt reveals slender muscles and pale skin. Bruises are forming on his torso, from their fight, but somehow this only serves to make him sexier. He's battle-worn, dangerous, and so hot. Metaphorically speaking.

'Buffy… Your skin… It's so warm…' He nuzzles her neck, kisses it, scrapes his teeth over her jugular, and she feels suddenly apprehensive and pulls back a ways, glaring at him suspiciously.

As though he can read her mind, he cocks his left eyebrow and says pointedly, 'Do you really think I'm going to bite you?'

'I don't know _what_ you're gonna do, Spike,' she says, quietly. Her heart is pounding in her chest.

Spike's tongue flicks out of his mouth, and he runs it along his lower lip thoughtfully. 'I'd be lying if I said part of me doesn't want to,' he says, a smirk playing on his lips. 'I can smell it, you know, your blood. I can hear it pumping away. Your pulse, the beat of your heart, my ears are full of it.' He taps her shoulder rhythmically, perfectly mimicking the pace of her heart. 'But I'm not going to. I wouldn't do that to you, you have my word, love.'

'That doesn't count for a whole lot,' she counters.

'What, you trusted me to keep Dawn safe, but you won't trust me now?'

'You couldn't hurt Dawn.'

'I can't hurt _you_, Buffy. For one, if I tried I'd probably be dead before I even had the chance to get a taste, and anyway… I don't want to. Why would I?' He puts his arms around her neck and pulls her toward him. She feels his tongue flick out to lick her earlobe. 'I finally have you,' he whispers. 'Why would I spoil that?'

'You don't have me, Spike,' she says, defiantly. 'You'll never have me. This… this is… I'm not yours.'

'You willing to put money on that, Slayer?'

And then he's got her on her back again, holding both her wrists above her head with one hand, pinning them to the floor. He lifts her legs up, hooking them over his shoulders, and unbuttons his jeans again. She's trembling with need and, hating herself, she welcomes him inside.

'You're… so hot…' he groans. 'Like fucking a volcano…' He kisses her knee, bites down on the inside of her thigh.

Buffy doesn't say a word. She stares up at him, wondering for the millionth time tonight what she's doing, why she's letting him do this, and why she's enjoying it. Why she's moaning and whimpering, why she's arching her back and pushing back against him, willing him to go deeper still.

Her legs slide down off his shoulders, and he comes down to her, pressing their bodies close together. He's touching every part of her he can reach, loving her with his hands, with his lips and his tongue and his teeth. One hand is in her hair, stroking and pulling. He slows down for a moment, looking into her eyes. He's trembling. He must be so close…

'You are so beautiful,' he whispers. 'You're a dream. Something out of a fairy tale. And you're mine!' he growls possessively.

And at this moment, though she will vehemently deny it to herself later, she knows it's true. Right at this moment, she belongs to him, and he belongs to her. He picks up the pace again, thrusting into her and hitting just the right spot, the spot that starts her juices flowing, that makes her tighten up inside, that makes her pant and moan and whimper, and writhe beneath him like a serpent, slippery and hot and sweaty and aching with the need for release.

And then, at last, it comes, for both of them. Buffy falls to pieces, arms flailing and toes curling, as she cries out, wordlessly. She wonders fleetingly if this is some kind of special vampire gift, to be able to hold off until she's ready, and she tries to remember if Angel did, but through the haze, she can't even conjure up his image in her mind. All she sees is Spike, his eyes wide open, staring into hers, his lips parted, a loud groan emanating from between them.

Then it's over, and he collapses on top of her, nuzzling her neck, breathing unnecessarily and heavily into her ear. Her hand moves almost of its own accord, up into his hair, and she runs her fingers through his disheveled locks, massaging his scalp. He lets out a contented mewling sound. Propping himself up on his elbow, he looks into her eyes again, smiling, and touches her face with the finger tips of his free hand. 'This must be what heaven feels like,' he murmurs, sleepily.

Buffy looks away, swallowing. 'No,' she whispers, 'it's not.'

* * *

_**End Note: **Thank you so much for reading this far! And thanks to those of you who have left reviews and such, you're brilliant! _

_I don't usually go for the shameless self-plug... Wait, I totally do, but not inside other stories. Yesterday, however, I spent most of the day writing a short the likes of which I've never ever written before, and I am simultaneously stupidly pleased with myself and terrified that I could write something quite so... twisted. It's a Spike-centric called 'Bad', and being a horror piece rather than romance, it's not getting an awful lot of reads, which saddens me as it's quite possibly the best thing I've ever written. If you feel like it, please head over to my profile and give it a little read. Cheers very much!_

_Thorn_


	10. Powerplay

_**Author's note: **This scene is set some time during season 6, between 'Gone' and 'As You Were'._

_**Warnings: **Language and sexual content  
_

* * *

POWERPLAY

He's in her power, and he knows it. She could do anything she wants to him, and he would let her. And she could, at any moment, kill him. She could, but he knows she won't. Just like he won't kill her. Not now. Not ever.

Buffy has him pinned to a stone wall. Her hands are wandering over his body, squeezing, pinching, tickling him in all the right places. He is naked from the waist up, but she still has all her clothes on, something he finds tremendously unfair. He would do something about it, if it weren't for the fact that he's finding it a little difficult to move, due to Buffy's mouth being attached to his neck, and the things she's doing with her tongue and her teeth there has him rooted to the spot, panting. It's a reflex; vampires don't need to breathe.

She takes his hands, lifts them up above his head and entwines their fingers. She licks a trail up to his earlobe, which she takes into her mouth and sucks on for a little while. He groans, deep in his throat. Her body is pressed tightly against his, and she rolls her hips against his groin. He pushes back against her, wills her to just get on with it already, because this is getting so painful, but it's a good sort of pain. It's pain with a promise.

'I always wondered,' she whispers in his ear, 'without a beating heart, how can the blood rush to your dick?'

He smiles. 'I don't know, love,' he says. 'Must be magic.'

She lets go of one of his hands, snaking hers down his torso. Her hand is so warm. It feels like fire against his flesh. It burns him. She cups his sex through the fabric of his jeans, rubbing with her palm, and his hips buck of their own accord. He pulls her closer with his free arm, gazes into her eyes, a smile playing across his lips.

Then, in an instant, he reverses their positions, pushing her roughly against the wall and crashing his lips against hers. She lets out a small whimper as he hoists up her skirt. She's not wearing underwear, and she's so wet and ready that it's hard to resist the urge to just take her right now. But he wants to play first.

He caresses her gently, loving every little moan and whimper that she utters, revelling in the heat and the life. Then he increases speed and pressure, until she's a shivering, shuddering wreck, still on her feet for naught but the virtue of supporting herself on his frame. Her nails dig into his shoulders, and she is biting into his neck so hard that he worries she might draw blood.

After, she sinks to the floor, limp and gasping, and he follows, straddling her, gazing into her green eyes, never breaking eye contact. He pushes her shirt up, slowly, to reveal her tummy and her small, perky breasts, pink nipples hard from the cold of his touch. He leans down, pulls her shirt off entirely. Takes one of her nipples into his mouth. She draws a sharp, gasping breath.

'Cold,' she murmurs. He smiles. Nibbles lightly at the nipple in his mouth. She lets out a moan.

He bites and kisses his way up her neck to her face. Then he pauses, looking into her eyes again. He strokes her cheek with his thumb.

'I want you so badly it hurts,' he whispers. 'Tell me you want me too.'

She looks away, her face flushed. 'Spike…' She frowns.

'Tell me you want me inside you, or I'll stop,' he says. 'I'll leave you hanging and you can sort yourself out.'

She looks at him again, and raises an eyebrow. 'You won't,' she says.

No, I won't, he thinks. 'Try me,' he says out loud. 'I know you want me, pet, I can feel it. Your body is screaming for it. But I want to hear you say it. Say you want me.'

'I…' she begins. Then she hesitates. Looks away, looks up at him again. 'I want you.'

A shudder goes through his body. Those words alone, they're almost enough to push him over the edge. 'What do you want me to do?' he whispers.

She draws breath, fixes him with her green eyes. 'Fuck me.' It's an imperative. An order. And also a plea. The tone in her voice is verging on desperate.

'Oh, Buffy, I need you!' he mutters. He rids himself of his pants and pushes inside her. Her heat surrounds him. He feels the warmth of her spread throughout his body, filling him up, making him whole. She's all he wants, all he needs, all he craves, and inside her he finds bliss.

She says that she doesn't love him. But right now – as she clings to him, pushes back against him, spreads her legs wider as though to try and get him deeper inside, whimpering and moaning and shuddering, her body urging him to go faster, do it harder, fill her up – surely some part of her loves him? It must. If only just a little bit. She loves him, just a little bit. She must. Or else, what's the point?


	11. Love Bites

_**Author's Note: **Porn again! Set during season six, some time before 'Dead Things', perhaps, or just before 'As You Were'. Enjoy!_

* * *

LOVE BITES

Spike is naked, his wrists cuffed to the bed. Buffy's sitting between his legs, facing him, still wearing her underwear. She leans forwards, putting both hands on his chest, curving her fingers and scraping down the length of his torso with her fingernails. He arches his back, groaning. She stops just short of his cock, lifting her hands, not touching it. She proceeds to lick and bite and touch every part of him she can reach – everywhere but his cock. She leaves that alone. Every time she gets somewhere in the vicinity of it, his hips buck up towards her, but she moves away. He's hard as rock and she hasn't even touched him…

He stares up at her, whimpering whenever she comes near, ready to burst. He just wants her to do it already, whatever she's got planned. To fuck him, if that's what she means to do, but she doesn't.

Instead, she sits back and removes her bra and panties. He devours her with his eyes, and he aches with need for her. He wants to touch her, lick her, fuck her, but she's too far away and he is trapped.

She straddles his middle, too far for him to reach with his mouth, and far north of his manhood. While he watches, she grabs her breast with her left hand, squeezing it and tweaking the nipple. Her right hand snakes down her tummy and in between her legs, and she begins to touch herself, her breath growing laboured and her eyes fluttering shut.

He stares wide-eyed as she pleasures herself. The expression on her face makes him shiver, and when she moans, he moans in empathy. She's positively dripping now, her juices leaving a wet patch on his stomach. She comes with a loud groan, thighs quivering. Slowly, she brings her right hand to his lips. He hungrily licks it clean. The taste is not entirely unlike blood, and serves to make him, if at all possible, harder than before.

She slides down, positioning herself above his cock. Then she looks directly into his eyes.

'I forbid you to come,' she murmurs. 'You don't get to come 'til I say so.'

'I… I'm not sure I'll be able to hold off, sweet,' he whimpers, throwing his head back and hissing as her clit brushes the very tip of his cock. 'Ah! I'm about ready to burst here!'

She pulls up a bit, no longer touching him. 'Then I think I'll just leave you like this,' she says.

'No! Please!' he begs. 'Please… I'll… I'll try my best, I really will.'

'You promise?' she asks, her voice silky. 'I don't want you coming before I get mine.'

'I swear,' he whispers hoarsely. 'I'll do whatever you want… Just… Let me feel you…'

She is so hot. Holding off, keeping himself from coming is the hardest thing he's ever had to do. She rides him, squeezes him, while she massages her clit with her fingers, causing her to tighten further around him. She comes several times. It takes all his willpower not to do the same.

And then, suddenly, she's gone, and Spike thinks he might cry. 'Wh… What are you doing?' he whimpers. 'I… I can't…'

She lies down next to him, just far enough away that they're not touching. 'I'm teasing a lion,' she says. 'Getting him all riled up to see what happens when I let him loose…' And with that, she rolls over so she's half way on top of him, producing the key for the handcuffs from underneath the pillow. She unlocks them.

As soon as he's free, Spike grabs her wrists and pushes her back into the mattress. He's on top of her before he even knows what he's doing himself.

'That was very, very naughty of you,' he growls. Then he flips her over, so she's on her stomach. He positions her facedown into the pillow with her arse in the air, and then he plunges inside, fucking her as hard as he can muster. He comes almost immediately, but, still hard, keeps going anyway, building up for another one. Her moans and cries fill the room, and he leans over her, until he's lying on top of her, and whispers in her ear, 'Is this what you wanted, pet? To be used? To be fucked like this?'

She doesn't answer. Instead, she turns her head as far back as she can manage and captures his lips. When he pulls back, she moans, 'Bite me, Spike!'

He stops moving immediately. 'What?'

'Bite me… I want you to… drink from me…'

He blinks. Stares at her neck, where he can see her pulse, and for a moment, he very much wants to. But then he says, 'No.'

'Why?' she whimpers. 'I'm asking you to…'

'Buffy, I won't bite you,' he says softly. 'You're not food. You're the woman I love.'

He pulls out, turns her over gently, and kisses her, putting everything he feels into it, trying to make her understand. Then he pushes inside her again, and makes love to her, slowly, passionately. He tries to keep eye contact, but she looks away, so he has to content himself with kissing her forehead and her cheeks and her neck, and whispering that he loves her, again and again, until he almost thinks she believes him.

Afterwards, she gets up and starts searching for her clothes almost immediately. He watches her from the bed, head cocked to one side, as she dresses quickly.

'In a hurry, love?' he asks. She slows down, but doesn't look at him.

'I need to get home to Dawn,' she replies. 'It's late.'

'Yeah,' he says. 'Say hi to the Niblet for me.'

'I really won't…' She buttons her blouse and pulls her boots on. Then she picks up her weapons bag where it's standing at the foot of the bed.

Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she glances at him. 'Thanks,' she says, quietly.

Spike raises an eyebrow. 'What for?'

'For saying no.' Then she turns around and vanishes up the ladder.


	12. Always

_**Author's Note: **Thought it was time for some porn. Here's the missing sex-scene from 'As You Were'. Enjoy!_

* * *

ALWAYS

'Tell me you love me.'

'I love you. You know I do.'

'Tell me you want me.'

'I always want you. In point of fact–'

'Shut up…'

Buffy closes the distance between them and puts an arm around his neck. Turning them both around, she hoists herself up onto the sarcophagus and pulls him with her. Spike climbs up after her, facing her, and she begins to unbutton his shirt, hurriedly, with shaking fingers. He gazes down at her. She's dressed simply in all black combat garb, her hair is pulled back, and she's wearing less make-up than usual. This is a far cry from how she normally dresses and still… She is so beautiful. He brings his face down to hers and their lips meet.

Her kiss is hungry and demanding. He doesn't mind one bit. He kisses her back, lets his hands roam over her body, slowly undressing her. Once rid of the light-weight armoured vest, she smells like sex, and she utters needy little whimpers between kisses, apparently frustrated with how slow he's being. He takes his time all the same, wanting to savour it.

Lately it seems as though their rendezvous have been gentler, more intimate. She used to come to him reluctantly, when she was at the end of her tether, and if he took the lead, she would reject him out of hand, at first, until he would manage to convince her with either words or actions. But since her birthday, she's been kinder, warmer, more willing. Perhaps seeing how badly she'd beaten him outside the police station made her feel guilty. Whatever the reason, he doesn't care so long as it means they can have these moments together.

She's all he thinks about, all he wants, all he craves, all the time. And he knows it's pathetic. But he can't let go of the hope that in some way, underneath it all, she does love him, or that she'll learn to. Especially now that her kisses have become so soft and her touch so affectionate.

But something's different today. There is an urgency and desperation to her movements. Spike only lets himself worry for a second. Then he loses himself in her, ignoring his creeping doubts. If there's something wrong, he can fix it. He can give it to her so well that she forgets whatever it is that's bothering her.

He pulls the black turtleneck off her and traces the contours of her neck with his lips, caresses her collar bone with the tip of his tongue, slowly, while he unhooks her bra. He cups one of her breasts in his hand, feeling the nipple harden under his touch. He squeezes it between thumb and forefinger, increasing pressure slowly until she throws back her head and gasps, her hips bucking upwards.

Spike takes her other nipple into his mouth, teasing it with his tongue and nibbling gently. At the same time, he moves his hand down her belly, tickling her lightly as he goes, until he reaches the lining of her pants. He unzips them slowly and reaches down to stroke her through her panties. He finds them soaked and grins, sucking a little harder on her nipple so her hips buck again. She moans. He pulls her pants down a little further and reaches inside her underwear to find her clit already engorged. He caresses it lightly, then rubs harder and she moans again.

Ignoring her frustrated whimpers and the motion of her hips as she clearly tries to get his fingers inside her, he focuses solely on the sensitive button pulsing beneath his fingertips. He releases her nipple from his mouth, instead cupping her breast with his other hand, and gazes at her face. Her eyes are squeezed tightly shut. Her breath is coming in ragged pants. One hand is grasping the blanket beneath her, the other flailing wildly before finding his upper arm and squeezing it, nails digging into his skin. She's quivering.

After a minute or so of this she grunts in frustration and grabs his wrist, stopping him. 'For fuck's sake, Spike!' she growls, pulling the hand away. Then she hurriedly removes his shirt and reverses their positions, shedding the rest of her clothing and pinning him beneath her, straddling his thighs.

Her hands are shaking. She's quivering with need as she removes his pants as quickly as she can, revealing his hard, weeping cock. Only taking a moment to lube him up with her own juices, she lowers herself onto his shaft with a groan.

As she fucks him, he gazes up at her face. Her hair is coming loose from its pony tail, some of it obscuring her eyes. He takes the hand she used to lube him up a moment earlier and brings it to his lips, sucking the mix of her juices and his precum off her fingers. Her mouth is open and she moans continuously now, getting closer to release. He strokes her sides with his hands, and when he feels her tighten around him, hot and wet and wonderful, he puts his arms around her and pulls her down on top of him, catching her lips with his own, and pumping upwards into her, taking the lead. One of her hands is grasping his upper arm, tightening and slacking her grip in time with the rhythm of his thrusts. The other is in his hair, pulling at it. It hurts, but it's a good kind of hurt, one he gladly accepts in exchange for the feel of her tight cunt around his cock, her tongue in his mouth, and the sound of her cries as she comes so hard, eyes flying open.

He barely notices that he comes himself, all his focus on her green eyes and the feel of her body against his, but then he groans, all his muscles tightening, and he grabs her arse automatically, thrusting in as deep as he can and spilling himself inside her.

They stay like that for a few minutes. Spike strokes Buffy's hair, now loose from its ponytail, gently. He can feel her heart beating against his chest, and for a moment it's almost as though his heart were beating too. Then her heart rate slows down, her breathing becoming more steady, and she climbs off him. He scoots to the side so she can fit next to him, pulling the blanket over them both. She won't look at him, which is nothing new, but the look on her face tells him not everything is as it should be.

'What's wrong?' he asks, softly. There's no answer. He props himself up on his elbow, and caresses her arm, studying her face. 'Buffy… Did something happen?'

Buffy shakes her head. 'No, I'm… I'm fine. I'm sorry, I just… I'm fine.'

He doesn't push the matter further, and within minutes they are both asleep.


	13. Missing

_**Author's Note: **A very quick __drabble. Set during _Seeing Red_._

* * *

MISSING

Spike paces his crypt restlessly. He has a whisky bottle in his hand, which he takes a swig of every once in a while.

He was fine with letting her go. Well, maybe not fine. Maybe about as far from fine as it's possible to get, but he was coping, because he thought it would make her happy. He wants her to be happy. Being with him was killing her. She told him that, and he accepted it. But she isn't any happier now than she was before. She is still thin and worn and tired looking. Still pale. Still broken. Her eyes are still sunken. Being with him might have been killing her, but not being with him isn't doing her any favours either. And he misses her. Misses her touch, and her lips. Her scent. Her heat…

If he can make her jealous, surely that means that she feels something for him? If seeing him with Anya hurt her that much… Surely that means that she loves him? On some level. In some way. She misses him. It's obvious that she does. He just has to make her see that.

With every sip of whisky, his resolve strengthens. He has to go to her. Talk to her. He can convince her. Hell, he could charm the pants off just about anybody! And he knows which buttons to press. Knows how to make her feel good. This is what she needs. This is what he must do to make her understand, to make her see. She will love him. She will.


	14. Basement

_**Author's Note: **Spike is insane in the basement. That's pretty much it. This is actually adapted from a horror short I wrote called 'Bad', but I thought this part belonged in this story as well, so I made some adjustments and cut out the flashbacks. If you want the full account of what happened in London in 1896, you can read the original, it can be found via my profile. _

_Thanks for continued reviews and follows! You guys are stars! _

_Warnings for horror elements and rape (nothing too graphic, though)._

* * *

BASEMENT

The basement is cold, and it soothes him, somehow. Cool concrete underfoot, cold brick at his back. Keeps the memories away. Lets him blend into his surroundings, room temperature, as though there were no spark.

Keeps the memories away, until someone talks to him. Until _it_ comes to him, taking the form of someone else. Of Glory, who tortured him. Of the Master who, as his great great grandsire, owned him. Of Adam, who controlled him. Of Drusilla, who loved him, and Buffy, who didn't.

And countless others, dead people, people he killed. A Chinese Slayer, who speaks to him in a language he can barely understand. A young man from Prague, babbling at him in stilted English. People whose deaths he orchestrated, or was otherwise responsible for, and every time he sees them, he relives them. It's like falling asleep and dreaming, and then he wakes up, feeling sick to his stomach.

Was this really what he wanted?

'Of course it was,' it says to him, whispering in his ear. 'This is what you wanted. You asked for this, begged for it, went through trials for it, because while you used to be a sadistic bastard, now you just want the pain.' She steps out in front of him, looking down at him. A red-headed girl from London, in a green, blood-soaked dress. She has her hands on her hips, and she glares at him in contempt. 'Remember, Spike,' she whispers. 'Remember what you did to me!'

And he remembers. Remembers being invited in by a middle-aged gentleman. Being offered a drink. Asking about his daughters and then snapping his neck.

He shakes and shivers, eyes shut tight, as though that will help keep the images away from his mind.

'Why are you doing this?' he whimpers. 'I know what I did, I know what I am! I'm a bad man… I know… I do…'

'No, you don't,' says the girl. She's on her knees in front of his, and when he opens his eyes again, they look straight into her angry green orbs, burning like flame, piercing him. 'You have to remember, Spike. Remember me, remember all of us. This is your punishment.'

'My… my punishment?' His mind is hazy, and he can barely see through the tears clouding his vision. 'My punishment for… for hurting the girl?' He pauses, hesitant. 'For hurting all the girls?'

She nods. 'Now you're getting it,' she says, smiling.

And he remembers again. Creeping through the house, killing the servants, the governess… Draining the six-year-old in the frilly dress, on the floor amidst her pretty dolls. And then, entering the bedroom of the red-headed girl, Miss Madeleine, who loved gothic romance novels and who smelt of fear and excitement. He remembers how he bestowed on her her first kiss, and her last. How he bit into her neck, drank deep of her sweet virgin blood.

'No!' he cries. 'Please, I'm sorry, I don't want to see!'

'But you must,' she says, dispassionately, gazing into his eyes. 'You have to see, you have to know what you did.'

'I do!' He shuts his eyes again, clutching his head in his hands. 'I do know, I don't want to, but I do, God help me…'

'I wasn't the first, was I?' The voice has changed, and he open his eyes, staring at the figure in front of him.

'Buffy…' he whispers. 'God, Buffy, I'm so sorry!'

'I know,' she says quietly. 'You're sorry about me, but are you sorry about them? Are you sorry about all the other girls you hurt? All the other girls you coerced, forced, raped?'

He looks away. 'I… I didn't…'

'Didn't what?' she snaps. 'Didn't rape me? Where do you draw the line, Spike? Even though I stopped you, you raped me long before that night. Long before! You violated me. You made me think I wanted you, that I had no one else, that you were the best I was ever going to get. That… What you did… That was only the climax of months of abuse! So yes, you need to see, Spike. You need to know!'

And, unbidden and unwelcome, he sees it all, as though he were there again. The girl, on the bed, her heart rate slowing from loss of blood, but still alive. When he knows she's at death's door, he tears off what remains of her clothes and forces his way inside her. Her sobs only make him go faster, want it more. And just as he comes, he tears into her with his fangs and drains her dry.

And at the same time, he sees Buffy, struggling beneath him on the cold bathroom tiles, begging him to stop.

Someone's sobbing. It must be himself. And someone else is laughing. He thinks that might be him as well.

'William is a bad man…' he moans. 'A bad man… I'm a bad man… Bad…'

He curls up in the foetal position, trying to take comfort in the cold concrete beneath him. He didn't know having a soul would be so painful. He didn't know what it would do to him, didn't realise how it would drive him round the bend. He needs help, but there's no one here who can help him. No one here who will. And no one who should, because he doesn't deserve it.


	15. The Patient

**_Author's Note: _**_I can't sleep, so you get a story. Set in season 7, just after Buffy's rescued Spike from The First. Plenty of hurt, and a little bit of comfort. Enjoy!_

* * *

THE PATIENT

Spike's eyes are closed. He's lying on his back, on a make-shift bed they've set up in the basement. His naked torso is covered in cuts and bruises, as is his face. His hands are cuffed, chained to the wall.

Up until a few moments ago he was thrashing and moaning, delirious, seemingly plagued by fevered dreams and hallucinations, except of course that he didn't have a fever. He can't. Now, he looks peaceful. He finally fell asleep. He's not breathing. He looks and feels dead, which he is.

Buffy sits down gingerly on the edge of the cot, trying not to wake him. He was moving around so much before that she hasn't had a chance to clean his cuts. Not that they can become infected or anything, and he'll heal on his own, but it does seem like the sort of thing that she should do. She has a shallow metal basin in her lap, filled with warm water, and a wash cloth. Very carefully, she cleans the dried blood from the ceremonial cuts on his chest. He does not stir.

She wonders fleetingly if they will scar. As a rule, vampires don't get scars, but Spike already has one, delivered post-mortem, on his left eyebrow. He got it from the Chinese Slayer he killed during the Boxer Rebellion. He told her that once.

When she found him in the cave, he didn't believe it was her, at first. Not until she cut him down. The relief and gratitude on his face just then… The way he looked at her when he realised that it was really her, that she'd come to save him at last, very nearly broke her heart. He kept his strength up long enough for her to get him home, but collapsed almost the moment she got him through the front door. As she was still injured from fighting the Turok-Han, she needed Xander's help to carry him down the stairs into the basement.

Unthinkingly, irrationally, Buffy brushes a lock of Spike's hair, normally held into place by massive amounts of hair gel but now loose and disheveled, away from his brow and, leaning down, places a kiss there. She is very grateful that it doesn't wake him up.

* * *

Spike opens his eyes, slowly. There's a dull ache in his head. As he shifts a little, he feels a similar ache in his muscles, and he groans. Wincing in pain, he turns his head a little. She's sitting in a chair next to him, looking at him. He smiles, in spite of the pain.

'Buffy,' he murmurs, his voice rough and hoarse, and he coughs.

'Hi, Spike,' she says softly, returning his smile. She shifts the chair closer to the cot. 'How are you feeling?'

Spike winces again. 'Like I've been tortured for days,' he says grimly, though there's a twinkle in his eye.

'Yeah, sorry about that,' says Buffy, looking at her hands. 'I wish I could have come for you sooner… I wanted to, but…'

'You came, that's all that matters,' says Spike. 'It's more than I deserve.'

Buffy shakes her head and looks at him. 'That's not true,' she says. 'I meant what I said, before the Bringers came… I believe in you. You're a good man, Spike.'

Spike smiles grimly. 'I'm not that,' he mutters. He tries to lift his hand, and notices the heavy shackles around his wrists. 'You always did like having me in bondage, love.' He looks up at her, an eyebrow raised.

'Just a precaution,' says Buffy, a barely noticeable tint entering her cheeks, and she pulls a key out of her pocket. She unlocks the shackles, and Spike flexes his fingers experimentally. His hands still work.

'Thanks, pet,' he says. He clears his throat, and closes his eyes again, for just a moment, he thinks. But when he opens them again, the light in the basement has changed. Buffy's still there, though, sitting vigil over him.

'How long was I out for?' he asks.

'Couple of hours,' says Buffy. He realises that she's holding a warm, wet cloth to his brow, and he smiles again.

'Haven't you got anything better to do, love?'

She shrugs, removing the cloth. He sighs as the warmth goes away, leaving him cold and dead once more. There's silence for a moment, and he listens to her heartbeat. It's steady, if a little quicker than normal.

'Thank you,' he says, after a moment. 'For, you know… The First, every day, it told me you wouldn't come for me, but I knew you would.' He gazes up into her green eyes, trying to show her how grateful he really is, trying to make her understand what this means to him.

She smiles at him, and touches his shoulder with her warm hand. He wants more of that warmth, wants it to burn him, brand him on the inside. He knows at that moment that there will never come a day when he won't want her, won't love her. But he refuses to let her know that. He knows that she doesn't feel the same way about him that he feels about her, and he can accept that now. So instead he smiles back at her, lies back and closes his eyes.

A moment later, he's out cold again.


	16. Before the Storm

_**Author's Note: **This is the second to last one of these. Old readers will notice, perhaps, that I've changed the order of the previous chapters so that they are now chronological. New readers will get to read all of the moments in the order they were intended.  
_

_This scene is set during _Chosen_. Buffy and Spike's last night together._

* * *

BEFORE THE STORM

The cellar door opens, and he looks up expectantly. It is just before dawn and today, he thinks, there is a very real chance that he will die. A very real chance that they will all die. Permanently.

She appears at the bottom of the stairs, looks at him, silent. He stands, pocketing the amulet.

'Is it time?' he asks.

'Almost,' she replies. Her face is solemn, her eyes bright with lack of sleep.

'Buffy…' He hesitates, not entirely certain of what it is he really wants to say. He reaches out towards her. 'Come here, love.'

She looks over at the window, then turns her eyes to his. They bore into him, as though she's trying to read his mind. Then she comes to him. Slow steps, never breaking eye contact. They sit down on his cot together, and he puts his arms around her. Strokes her shoulder. She looks up at him.

'Buffy, I—'

'Don't,' she interrupts, looking away. 'Spike… You don't have to say anything.'

'No, I do,' he says emphatically. 'It might be the last time I get to say it.' He pauses, to see if she is going to stop him again. She doesn't. 'I love you,' he says at last. 'More than anything. And it's all right that you don't love me. Today… if I die, I'll know it was to protect you. And that's all I could ever ask for.' He kisses her forehead. 'I just need you to know that. Whatever happens now… Well.'

'Yeah,' she breathes. 'I know.'

He burns with want just then. Not for her body; if he wants to shag her now, it's to be as close to her as he can possibly get. In the past few days he has felt closer to her than he ever has to anyone before, in his life, and still it's not enough. He wants to be closer. He holds her tighter, and she squeezes his hand.

'Buffy…'

She turns to him again, her sombre eyes meeting his once more.

He lifts his hand and brushes a stray strand of golden hair away from her brow. His index finger lingers at her temple, before he cups her cheek in his palm, revelling in the warmth of it. She covers his hand with her own, her warmth surrounding his hand now, making his fingertips tingle. He spreads his fingers to entwine them with hers. Lifts his hand away from her cheek, taking hers with it. He brings it to his lips, kisses her knuckles gently. Her green eyes are still fixed to his, and she doesn't pull her hand away. This makes him feel brave, so he leans in and touches his lips to hers, very softly. She responds.

It is a chaste kiss, but it fills him with warmth, from the tips of his toes to the core of his very soul. His gut clenches, and he wants to cry, but he doesn't. At least he thinks he doesn't. It's possible that a single tear finds its way down his cheek, because there is a faint taste of salt to the kiss now. Or it could be _her_ tears.

He pulls back, feeling just a little pathetic as he feels his face to find it wet. She smiles a melancholy smile at him, and wipes the tears from his cheek with her thumb.

'It's time,' she says.

'I know.'


	17. Aftershock

_**Author's Note: **This is set just after the final battle in _Chosen_, and concludes this collection. I hope you've enjoyed it! thank you so much to everyone who's reviewed, favourited, followed and encouraged. You guys are stars, every one of you! _

* * *

AFTERSHOCK

Buffy sits curled up on her bed, knees pulled up to her chest. She didn't know it would be this hard, the first night without him here. They found a Motel 6 with enough vacancies to fit them all. Got everyone with major injuries to the nearest hospital. It's 2 AM, and she can't sleep. There's someone missing next to her. Someone who should be here but who isn't. There's a hole in the world.

Dawn is snoozing lightly in the bed next to hers. Looking at her sister fills her with gratitude. She's happier than she can possibly express that Dawn is alive and well, that Willow and Xander and Giles and all the rest of them are okay, and yet she can't really manage to be happy.

They all sat up for a good long while in Giles, Andrew and Xander's room, just talking. There was a carton of wine involved, and a lot of silly jokes. They laughed for no reason and were happy to be alive, and basked in each other's company. But now that she's alone, it hits her like a tonne of bricks.

Spike's gone. He saved them all and he's gone. He died a hero, went down fighting just like he wanted, but she can't be happy about that, not ever.

And there's no one she can talk to. None of the others understand what she and Spike shared, what he meant to her. When they all abandoned her, he stood by her. Loved her. Made her strong. She could try to explain it, but even then they wouldn't get it. Xander always hated Spike. Giles tried to have him killed. Willow might try to understand, but she couldn't either, not fully. After everything that Buffy and Spike have been through, all he did to her and all she did to him, she's never felt closer to anyone than she did to him. Not even Angel, not like that.

'_I love you.'_

'_No, you don't. But thanks for saying it.'_

Would this be easier if he had believed her?

'What a jerk!' she mutters.

Dawn stirs ever so slightly, and Buffy sighs. She gets out of bed and leaves the room.

The night air is chilly, and she hugs herself. In the direction where Sunnydale used to be, there is now nothing but darkness. There's a hole in the ground. A big, gaping hole. Her home, her job, everything she knew, is gone. It's lucky, really, that everyone left town when they did, or they'd all be dead too. She wonders idly where they're supposed to go from here.

A few doors down to her right, one opens and Giles steps out.

'Hi Giles,' says Buffy. Her old Watcher looks up at her, startled. He has a large cup most likely containing tea and possibly also scotch in one hand. The other is in his pocket.

'Buffy,' he says. 'Can't sleep?'

She shakes her head. 'I thought it might be easier than this… Didn't sleep last night, and after the day's excitement…' She smiles. 'Still no sleeping for Buffy.'

'Yes, well… Me too. Obviously.' He takes a few steps closer. 'Listen, I meant to… I–I mean to say, I really have behaved in the most appalling manner…' He trails off, as if searching for the words.

'It's okay,' she says. 'Already forgot about it.'

'You shouldn't,' he says. He has reached her now, and he pulls his hand out of his pocket to touch her shoulder. 'As much as it pains me to say it, Spike was right. I felt frustrated, because I wasn't… Well, I wasn't needed. You didn't need me anymore.'

Buffy turns to him. 'This is really eating you up, huh?'

He smiles. 'A little,' he admits. 'But, Buffy, I am so proud of everything you've done, everything you've accomplished, and I'm so sorry that I ever let you think otherwise.'

She covers his hand with hers. 'You're forgiven,' she says. 'But feel free to keep apologising if it makes you feel better.'

He lets out a small laugh, returning his hand to his pocket. Takes a sip of his tea. Looks over at her again. 'There is one other thing,' he says. 'I… I'm really sorry for your loss.'

She looks at him, raises an eyebrow. 'Really?'

'Yes, really. I don't… I don't know what transpired between you and Spike, towards the end, but… I know it hurts you that he's gone.'

Buffy nods. 'It does,' she says, simply. 'Thank you.'

'Is that why you can't sleep?'

'Partly. Probably.'

He remains silent, studying her, as though he's waiting for her to speak again.

She sighs. 'He… He gave me strength. Made me feel like I could really do it, and we grew really close. I… I miss him.' She feels a tear slide down her cheek and quickly wipes it away with her sleeve. 'He made me believe in myself, when nobody else did,' she continues. 'That's a really powerful thing. It… meant a lot to me. He meant a lot to me.'

Giles nods. 'I can't pretend to understand why you felt that way about him,' he says. 'But I can understand _how_ you felt. How you _feel_. It's… I was wrong about him. I see that now. He sacrificed himself, of his own free will. There was no chip, nobody had to make him do it.'

'I did,' Buffy whispers, tears flowing again. 'It's how it feels… He did it for me…'

'You didn't force him, Buffy, he made a choice. And if you don't mind my saying so, it was the right one. We would all be dead if it weren't for him.'

'I know,' she says. 'But he died thinking I didn't love him.'

Giles studies her face over the top of his glasses. 'And did you?'

Buffy heaves another sigh and looks down at her hands. In her mind's eye, she sees it all over again. She takes his hand, their fingers entwine just as his hand catches fire. He's bathed in sunlight…

'_I love you.'_

She nods. 'Yes,' she whispers, and the tears begin to fall. 'I did. And I do. I love him.'

Giles sets his mug down on a nearby window sill and puts his arms around her, and all of a sudden she remembers why she loves this person – this school librarian, magic shop keeper, Watcher, warlock, genius, this brave and amazing fighter. And she begins to cry in earnest, letting everything she feels spill out onto him, the closest thing she has to a parent now, the closest thing she's ever had to a reliable father figure.

He strokes her back soothingly and kisses the top of her head. 'Then you know what you have to do,' he says.

'What?' she mumbles.

'Remember him,' says Giles. 'Take the strength he gave you and use it to keep fighting, to keep going. For him, and for everyone else who's died. Live, for him.'

She sniffs and nods. 'Yeah,' she says. 'I will.'

* * *

_**End note: **Epic thanks go out to _**_MaireAlbhe_**_, **emptyvessles**, **CailinRua**, **Nonnikie**, **NicolinaN**, **Aalicia**, **Elizabeth**, **Lovely-Plot**, **BuffySunnydale **and **washed away again **for their reviews and words of encouragement. You are all amazing, and you rock, and you're the reason why I keep writing (well, try to keep writing, anyway...) I love you all! _


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